The Red Blazer - A Daughter's Perspective

As long as I can remember, Dad had a red Chevy Blazer.
It has been in my parents garage in the same place for many years. My brother has many camping memories in that Blazer. I have many memories of that Blazer saving the day.
Last Saturday, I went over to my parents house to hang out with Mom while my husband went to media duty at our church. I usually go out to the garage to start the Blazer and run it a bit. Before Dad passed away, I was doing it in hopes that it would be running when he came home from the hospital. Now I do it, just to keep it running.
On Saturday, I went out to the garage and put the key in the ignition. Nothing happened. It wouldn't start. I suppose it just sat there too long.
Who knows?
Memories came flooding back to me about that silly Blazer.
When I was a senior in high school, my dad bought a brand new red Blazer. I needed to borrow it to pick up some homecoming balloons for the big game. On my way to school, I was distracted and went head-on with a parked car, a Toyota Corolla, which didn't have a chance.
My first instinct was to run. Drive off. Who would know?
But I got out of the Blazer, went to a front door and knocked. Dad was called, came to my rescue. He made me drive the wrecked Blazer to school anyway, where I received my first tardy slip in all my years of school.
Dad's insurance covered the repairs on the poor Toyota but not the 2-week-old Blazer. Dad ordered the parts and sat in the driveway while he instructed me on how to fix the Blazer.
I'll never forget it.
In college, on my way home for the weekend, my car died. Dead as a doornail. Cell phones were not around yet. Some kind people stopped to assist, but I wouldn't take a ride with them. I just told them to call my dad.
Someone did, and here came Dad in that red Blazer to rescue me once again. Somehow found me in the middle of nowhere.
One time when I flew the friendly skies home, I gave my parents the wrong airport. When I realized the error, I called home. Mom said Dad was already on his way to the wrong airport and for me to go catch the shuttle that would take me to the hotel close to my parents' house. So off I went, looking for this shuttle. Couldn't find the shuttle.
Went outside frustrated and sat on the curb. Low and behold, the red Blazer pulled up. It was Dad. How he knew I was there, I don't know. But he found me!
We have always had this sixth sense about each other. He always knew when I was hurt or in trouble.
In the late 1990s, he got a new red Blazer, that one that now sits silent in the garage, the one with which my son has always been fascinated.
Not long ago, on the way to the post office, a garbage truck ran a red light and hit my car hard. I walked away, sore and confused but otherwise. As soon as I walked in the door of my house, the
phone rang. It was Mom. She said Dad wanted her to call me. They had invited me to lunch, but I turned them down. I didn't say anything about the accident because I was still in shock. Mom hung up. Dad insisted for her to call me again. Mom told me they were on their way to my house and asked whether things were OK.
I said, "No, it's not OK, but I will tell you when you get here."
I wanted them to see I was OK before I told them I was hit by a garbage truck. I didn't want them to panic. But Dad knew. He knew I was hurt.
He insisted to come see me. He pulled up my driveway in that red Blazer. Once again to save the day.
He has always known what I was up to. I have always felt him here. I still do. I know he is up there watching over us.
Doesn't make it any easier.

- Kristen Pearson

Video Tribute

My brother-in-law, Mark Fusco, put together a fantastic slide show covering my dad's life.
The goal was to have it play at the funeral services, but due to equipment limitations in the chapel, it was decided to have the slide show playing during the reception.
I spent a heartbreaking afternoon scanning in a majority of the photos, which I wanted to capture his lifespan, from the time he was a baby, through young adulthood, into war, later family life and then old age.
It marked the peak of the grieving process for me because it helped put his whole grand life into perspective.
It even includes the last photo ever taken of him, using my camera phone. I hesitated to use it, due to the morbidity of it, but there is a touching beauty to it, with my mom holding his hand during the fleeting moments where we still believed he had a chance to survive.
Other siblings added some more pictures, and Mark put it all together.
At first, I thought about having Willie Nelson's "Blue Eyes Crying In The Rain" as the background music, but then I remembered something from my childhood, a classical guitar piece that John Williams (the guitar player, not the "Star Wars" composer) had on his greatest hits album.
Dad and I listened to a tape of it on our first adventure to Brady, Texas, home of the state championship muzzleloader competition. I was seeing the Hill Country for the first time, and the piece was playing, and all was well, beautiful and exciting. I'll never forget it.
Another version can be heard on the soundtrack of the Academy Award-winning John Wayne movie, "The Cowboys," a favorite that Dad and I watched together several times.
But finding the Williams performance of that piece proved to be difficult. I have it on album at home, but converting that for use in a DVD slide show would require some high-tech effort using my eight-track digital recorder. And I could not find "John Williams' Greatest Hits" anywhere on the Internet.
However, we managed to find the performance on another collection of Williams' performances, so "Concerto For Lute (Guitar), 2 Violins (Strings) And Basso Continuo InDMajor, R. 93: II. Largo" finally became the background music.
The video was a smash hit at the reception. People stood mesmerized. It's a fantastic work.
So here it is.
Grab some tissue:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-kTeTIDIC1k

1 Month Later

It was one month ago today that Dad passed away.

During this time of grief, obscure, fond memories have bubbled to the surface, moments I haven't thought about in years.

I worry about the memories fading, about me failing to pass on his story to my children. I grieve over not getting the chance to engage in one last adventure with him.

I feel his soul and spirit all around me, when I'm out running, when I'm trying to be a good father, when I'm challenging myself to do the kinds of things that would make him proud.

One of these challenges had been a backyard treehouse I've spent several months now toiling over. Heavy rains this winter slowed progress, but I'm close to getting it safe enough for the kids to climb on.

The treehouse idea started in the complicated mind of my son, Curt. Several years ago, after watching a "Little People" video, he asked me to built him a treehouse. At the time, potty training was an issue.

My construction skills also could be called into question. Dad could turn a piece of wood into a nuclear power plant. During recent visits home, I've noticed more and more all the guns, chests and frames that he built.

Amazing.

Meanwhile, my attempts at wood-working have been restricted to staining and installing shelves. I haven't had the patience to take a chisel and toil for hours over a 1-square-inch space of wood, like Dad did on so many of the muzzleloaders he built.

Instead, unlike anyone else in the family before me in recent memory, I've taken to music. I write it, play it, record it, produce it and put it on CD. I've probably got 100 songs in my musical Rolodex. Music is my muzzleloader.

It's not the kind of stuff worthy of a record contract, but it amuses and entertains me, as well as a handful of those around me, such as my children. They love to hear "Daddy's new song."

But crafting wood is another matter, hence my apprehention about my son's treehouse idea.

I got the clever idea of telling him I'd build him a treehouse when he pooped in the potty and abandoned diapers forever. We talked about a few times, but as the months of potty training wore on, the subject was dropped.

But then early last year, months and months later, it happened. He decided he'd had enough of the diapers and pooped on the potty.

And the first words out of his mouth?

"Now daddy gotta build me a treeshouse!"

So treehouse construction started in the fall. Little Curt and I picked out the perfect spot, and, without any kind of blueprint, I just started hammering boards. Sometimes, little Curt would join me, randomily hammering nails into wood. He's a good little hammerer.

My dad got to see the early stages of this, and he seemed pleased. Many of the suggestions he had were already taken care of.

"You might want to put a cross support there," he said.

"It's already there. Look under there," I replied.

"Excellent! Way to go! I'm proud of you," he said.

Now that he's gone, treehouse construction has taken on a whole new meaning. The treehouse must be sturdy. It must be impressive. It must be clever. It must look like a professional's work.

And I believe it's well on its way to being all that.

Last weekend, I finally got the floor in, aside from a few little places. Next, I'm going to put up railing and a staircase, and the children can play on it while I start adding the roof and assorted bells and whistles, perhaps a slide and few other creative ideas.

Some day soon, I'm going to sit atop my finished work, drink a beer and reflect as the excited children frolick around me.

And then I'll probably break down and cry.